never forget about her
by lucasjamesfriar
Summary: Lucas can't remember anything, not even his own name. He's completely lost in a plane of reality that isn't his own, and finding his way back feels downright unfathomable. All he can remember is her, the memory of her brown eyes and soft smiles and her voice asking him to come back home. So he will. If she wants him to, he will.
1. nowhere

**A/N:** Hello friends and readers alike, and happy December! This is officially my kick-off fic for 12 Days of Ficmas, and I have to say I'm pretty proud of how it turned out. I mean, it's absolutely insane, but I had a lot of fun writing it and I hope you enjoy it!

I would put light trigger warnings on this fic for violence and discussions of death / suicidal ideation. It's not _graphic_ at any point I would say (I describe it mostly like a little darker than later HP or PJO books), but I want y'all to go into this with the best sense of what you might get as possible. Take care of yourselves!

Excited for what the rest of Ficmas has to offer, and very excited to share this piece with you. :)

* * *

 _Fire. He's on fire._

 _Nothing else seems to register but that all-consuming fact. Maybe because there isn't anything else, nothing but the searing pain erupting across every inch of his body. It's a burning pain, yet a persistent ache. He's not even a_ he _anymore. He's not sure what he is, if he's anything at all but a thousand broken pieces, scattered and searing and far from recognizable._

 _He doesn't know who he is, or where he is, or whether there is anything else to know. All he knows is that everything hurts, and he wants it to stop. He wants it to end._

 _Then he hears her._

 _Or, at least he thinks it's a her. It's muffled, far off, drowned out by the inferno. Yet somehow, it breaks through._

 _Somehow, he hears her._

 _She says a phrase, one breath, but it's still muffled and he can't make out the actual word. But it's familiar, so sharply known to whatever vague remnants of him are left that it seems to snap things back into focus. For a moment, all of the pain ceases, coming to a standstill to make room for this one voice._

 _"Please," she exhales. It's stunningly clear, reverberating around him and pushing the turmoil further away. Giving him the chance to reorient, to search for the sense of self that's been so violently worn away he's not sure if there's a point in trying._

 _But there is. There has to be, if she's able to cut through the chaos right to him. If she can find him even when he can't find himself._

 _She takes a second to breathe, and in that shaky inhale the entire world seems to brush by him. Fleeting, just out of grasp, but promising. Existent. Something outside of the encompassing nothing._

 _In a burst of clarity, he sees her. Maybe it's one instance, maybe it's a thousand moments moving so fast he can't comprehend them all. But he can visualize her—effortless smile, crinkled nose, bright brown eyes that he knows he could get lost in. A comforting tilt of the head, and an expression that conveys more warmth than he thinks he's ever known._

 _He can't remember who she is. He can't even remember who he is, if he's anybody at all. But he can remember the feeling of her so vividly it's almost a brand new ache all its own. The sense of belonging, the lightness that permeated even the heaviest of days, the gentle simplicity of something so profound._

 _Suddenly, he can feel something else._

 _Cool relief, first a single drop. Then another. Soon enough it's a downpour, soaking him to his core and washing away all the nothing. Like a summer rain._

 _Somehow, he knows that's exactly what it is._

 _As brief as the clarity lasts, the image of her is burned in his memory. In spite of all the pain still invading every inch of him, now he feels the urge to fight back. He has to, because somewhere beyond this she's there. Waiting for him. Wherever and whatever he may be now._

 _There's a point. There's a reason. There's a promise, and he doesn't intend to be the one to break it._

 _She holds the inhale, bringing everything to a halt. Suspending him in an in-between state, although he doesn't understand what's waiting at either end. Then, she exhales one last plea._

 _"Come back to me."_

 _He will. If she wants him to, he will._


	2. shadows

Impossibly, he opens his eyes.

Although the ache is still consistent all throughout his body, what hurts more than anything else is his chest. It's his lungs, so starved for oxygen that they've collapsed in on themselves. When he takes a breath it quickly turns into a gasp, desperate and so choked by whatever else had taken up residency in his ribcage in the meantime.

He jolts upright, immediately losing his balance and collapsing onto his side. It requires a dozen or so uneven inhales to remember how to breathe properly. And for all the strength it took to accomplish just that, he feels indescribably weak.

He presses his forehead to the pavement underneath him, gritty and slick from rainwater. It's odd to recognize the foundation as cement, to be able to identify anything at all. He absorbs that he at least feels like a solid, coherent entity again, even if that's just about the only thing he can distinguish about himself.

Exhaling a groan, he gives up supporting his own weight—it's exhausting to even have mass after an indefinite amount of time without it. He collapses back onto his back, allowing the rain to drench him until the feverish heat dulls to an uncomfortable chill. Strange, to have a sensation drip right down to his bones.

He lets his eyes flutter open again, this time allowing them the chance to adjust to the light. To the consciousness of having anything to see. The sky above him is cloudy grey, an endless swath of monochrome unleashing the shower upon him.

The view is almost dizzying with how unassuming it is. He feels he could fade away, meshing with the asphalt and disappearing right out existence all over again. At least in this version, it would be peaceful.

The odd groan of bending metal snaps him out of it, reminding him how he got to this point in the first place. He allows himself another shaky intake of breath and rolls himself onto his side, searching through the misty haze for the source of the noise.

He realizes just how much of his surroundings there is to take in. He's not simply laying on the gravel—he's lying in a roadway, the towering streets of a metropolis blocking him in on either side. There are billboards peeking out from behind the gaps between structures, but they're blank slates. Craning his neck to the road in front of him, a giant mirage of electronic screens crawl all the way up the central point of the city display nothing but static.

Cars litter the curbside, rusted and scorched from the inside out. The buildings look less like shelters and more like skeletons, blown out windows revealing peeling walls and decrepit foundations. Everything exists in the same dull shades of grey—if it weren't for the memory of those twinkling brown eyes, he's not sure he'd even remember color is a thing that exists.

Something about the cityscape is vaguely familiar, yet not enough to offer him another shot of lucidity. Rather it's the fog of one, dust clinging to the shadow of the memory that's left behind.

One of the decaying automobiles lurches forward as a weight descends upon it, signaling another moan of weathered steel. He follows the echo of the noise, finally spotting the girl watching him from a few feet away.

For a fleeting moment, he thinks it might be her. But allowing his vision a second longer to adjust disproves this theory, and he knows he would recognize her instantly if it were.

Regardless, his girl is far too animated to be whoever is peering at him. This one is more shadow than sunshine, crouched on the hood of the deteriorating hatchback and folded in on herself in a protective posture. As if he's the one she needs to be wary of.

She's got a pair of spectacles a couple too sizes too big, making her eyes even wider than they already are. Her dark, wavy hair falls in curtains on either side of her face, hiding her just enough to remain comfortable. To pretend as if she cannot be seen.

They simply gape at each other for a few long moments, rain pattering against the shells of traffic around them. After what feels like an eternity, she finally speaks.

"How did you do that?"

He blinks, uncertain how to respond. Partially because he has no idea what she's referring to, but mostly because he forgot he had the power of speech until she prompted him to use it. For whatever reason, staying silent seems so commonplace for him it's an ordeal to get that part of his brain working again.

"Do—," he starts, only to disrupt his own statement with a hacking cough. The shadow watches him with a grimace as he's overcome with retching, his body attempting to expel whatever decay had built up in his lungs or perhaps eject the whole organ altogether.

His throat raw and breathing ragged again, he manages to spit out the phrase. "Do what?"

She remains perched with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, keeping a safe distance from him. But it's obvious from her expression that she wants to investigate further. For whatever reason, he's captured her attention. Her scrutinizing gaze is like being under the lens of a microscope.

"Move. Breathe." She tilts her head, lacking the inherent warmth that such a gesture from his girl provides. Hers is clinical, all part of an examination. "Continue on."

Although it feels distinctly foreign to his fragile physique, he's fairly certain that moving and breathing is what he's supposed to do. "Why?"

His lack of understanding towards her surprise seems to confuse her further. She straightens up slightly, hair falling back from her cheeks to allow him a better look at her features. They're inquisitive, just as critical as her gaze. But the unexpectedness of him seems to have injected some compassion into them.

"Because no one ever does."

He doesn't understand. He doesn't get what she's trying to say, until his awareness seems to grow sharper and his attention to detail alerts him to another gruesome aspect of the setting he'd neglected to note.

All around him, spotting the scenery, are corpses. Still, unmoving, blending in with the dust and grime. Half-hidden under cars, tucked inside the corners of the buildings with limbs hanging out of empty window panes. Littering the street behind him, staring lifeless at the storm clouds above them.

It strikes him that this stranger's curiosity can only mean one thing. That up until minutes ago when he opened his eyes, he was one of them. Another decaying piece of the scenery, devoid of any life or animation or purpose.

Purpose. Suddenly, his right to breathe seems much more important.

"Where?" he croaks, the girl slowly clambering off the car hood and tip-toeing towards him. She approaches warily, a surveyor assessing a wounded animal to determine whether it's worth rehabilitation or in need of mercy. "Where is she?"

The shadow frowns. "Who?"

He's frustrated that she doesn't already know, that he has to even begin to explain. But as he opens his mouth to tell her, he realizes he doesn't know where to begin himself. Although the memory of her is so vivid in his mind, the only remnant of who he is and perhaps used to be, he has no idea how to articulate her into something a stranger would comprehend. How is he supposed to describe the universe?

All of the determination to get back to her, and he can't even remember her name.

"I have to get back," he says without further explanation, rolling onto his side despite the ache that erupts throughout his muscles. He grits his teeth, willing himself to find the strength to keep going. "I have to get back to her."

The shadow doesn't argue, giving him a wide berth as he struggles against the concrete. She watches apprehensively, transfixed by his desperation. She twists a string on the sleeve of her cardigan in her fingers, the garment as dust-colored as the rest of the world around them.

He's out of breath far too quickly. "Can you help me?"

Reluctantly, she shakes her head. He exhales in disappointment, attempting to get to his hands and knees.

"I can't," she says helplessly, continuing to observe his plight with a mixture of awe and cold fascination. "You have to do it. You have to do it for yourself."

He growls, irritated by the lack of assistance but no less resolute. All he has to do is get to his feet. If he can get to his feet, he can keep going. If he keeps going, he can get home.

Home. He hardly recognizes the word, can't even remember its meaning, but it sends a tingle down his spine through each of his limbs. Conjuring up some of that unattainable warmth, battling the bitter cold of the rain and giving him the momentum he needs.

He manages to push onto his forearms, scraping his elbows against the jagged surface of the pavement as he fights to get upright.

When he manages to stand at his full height, he isn't sure he's going to last. A wave of dizziness crashes over him as the blood rushes back to his head, his system reorienting and exhausting itself to get back in working order. He takes a couple of steps, uncertain whether he's simply going to go sprawling back down to the ground.

The shadow girl seems to be contemplating the same. She watches him like a hawk, eyes still wide behind her spectacles and clearly unprepared to see another human walk upright.

If she's even actually human.

He can feel his heartbeat pounding in his head, but he determines he doesn't care. He's moving, and apparently that in it of itself is a miracle.

Once it's evident he's not going to collapse, she takes a few tentative steps towards him. When she comes to his side and peers up at him, it hits him that he's much taller than his shadowy companion. He's got a least a foot on her, but her probing glare makes him feel far smaller.

"Who are you?"

Another blank. Considering moments ago he was merely a scattered sentience of a person, if that's what he is, he certainly has no perception of where to begin on defining himself.

"I don't know," he admits. He examines her, raising an eyebrow. "Who are you?"

"Nothing, really," she says plainly, dropping his gaze and shifting her eyes to the deteriorating city instead. "Most of the beings here are remnants of another left behind, hence the shells laying around. They never come back. I'm not that, but I'm not sure what I am otherwise. If I even have a purpose, exactly."

"You must have one, or else why would you be here?"

"I'm not sure." She shrugs, blinking at him again. "You're the first to ask."

There's a lot about this girl he'd like to figure out, so much he'd like to pick apart, but an anxiousness begins to creep up along his shoulder blades. The unmistakable feeling that if time is a factor, he's wasting it. The sensation and bout of paranoia that comes with it feels hauntingly familiar.

"I have to go," he repeats, starting an unsteady walk down the crumbling city street. The shadow tags along behind him, keeping pace. "You must know your way around. Is there an exit? A way out of the city?"

"I only know of one," she concedes, but her features are wrinkled with skepticism. "I am not certain it works though. I've never seen anybody use it."

"Take me there."

She nods, pointing behind him. He swivels around, staring down into the darkness of a staircase that seems to disappear right into the underground of the city. Leading to nowhere.

"It's down there," she explains, trepidation coloring her expression. "I've never gone. And from what I've heard, no one who enters ever comes back out."

Not a promising description. But he's trapped otherwise, and he'll be damned if he doesn't give getting back to her his best possible effort. He nods, locking eyes with the shadow girl. "Will you come with me?"

There's a tense pause. If he has to proceed alone, he will. But it would be far more comforting to approach the unknown with company.

After a moment's hesitation, she nods. Matching his stride, the two of them head towards the stairwell and descend into the darkness.

It's total obscurity for an indeterminate amount of steps, until dim lantern light begins to bleed into his vision. Squinting through the dust blowing around in the drafty walkway, he discovers they're walking in a tunnel. Hollow and musty, the walls cold and curved concrete around them.

He continues to head towards the center when a force abruptly yanks him back by the shirt, tugging him back to the edge of the cavern. He's not sure if his shadow touched him to pull him away or if she has some other ability to do it without contact, but her glare is pointed when he whips around to make eye contact. He gives her an irritated look.

"What?"

"Considering all the effort you put into rising, I'd hate to see you waste it all by falling again."

She nods indicatively behind him, in the direction he was heading earlier. Spinning around, he realizes what she means. Splitting the tunnel down the middle is a huge trench, even and lined with track that continues in either direction deep into the endless inky blackness.

"Step back," she states suddenly, posture growing rigid and delivery somewhat robotic. As if she's speaking the fact without truly knowing it. Like its programmed within her somewhere that she's never had to utilize before. "Train is arriving."

Right on cue, bright, yellow light splashes into his line of sight and temporarily blinds him. He screws his eyes shut and turns away as the vehicle approaches, wheels grinding against the tracks and sending sparks in every direction. The tunnel thunders around them with the power of the engine, trembling under their feet and threatening to collapse on top of them.

When the noise subsides, he allows himself a glance. The headlights are boring into the darkness in front of the odd vehicle, a single subway car unhinged and disconnected from the rest of the train. When it finally grinds to a complete stop, the double doors slide open and a ding emits from somewhere above them. Inviting them inside, if they so choose.

"What is it?" he asks tentatively, taking a step towards it. "Where does it go?"

"I don't know," she breathes, seemingly in awe. She can't take her eyes off of it, simultaneously enchanted and petrified all at once. She shies away from the glow of the headlights, ducking behind him and peering around his upper arm. "But I think it's waiting for you."

He lets his gaze linger on the open doors, taking a deep breath before approaching the idling car. He glances back over his shoulder at his shadow companion, steps away from taking the leap and progressing deeper into the unknown.

She cocks her head, shaking it ever so lightly. Pitying. "You just don't give up, do you?"

Something about the phrase, coming from her, sets off another buzzer in his empty head. An echo of a joke that used to be there, perhaps belonging to a friend he knew once before. Even though neither of them recognize the other now.

Still, his mouth seems to form a response before he properly thinks of it himself. "Nope."

Gently, her lips curl into a faint smile. She nods him onward, encouraging him to climb aboard before he misses his chance.

Facing forward, he braces against the doorway and steps through into the car, easing himself fully inside until the doors slide closed behind him. When he turns back around to look out the window, he discovers the shadow girl is gone. Part of his consciousness itches, wondering if she was ever really there at all.

Swiveling back around, he takes in the full extent of the subway car. It's unassuming, ordinary, about as plain as he believes it could be. A discarded newspaper sticks to the floor like mache. An advertisement for long-lasting eyeshadow stares at him from the corner by the handicap seating.

He's gotten this far. Only alone, he isn't sure where he's supposed to go next.

Humbly, he saunters his way further into the car, coming to stand in the center by the beam staked right through the heart of the vehicle. There's no conceivable conductor, no obvious way to operate it from where he's stationed. For what it's worth, it seems as though he's gotten this far just to hit a dead end.

He releases a sigh, stepping forward and wrapping a hand around the bar.

The car lurches in an instant, causing him to grip the pole with both hands as he's nearly nudged off his feet by the sudden movement. He glances around, searching for an explanation as the slow, eerie cranking of metal signals another shift underneath him. A brake disengaging.

The relative still only lasts seconds. Then, he's thrown as the car shifts into high gear, barreling into the darkness at what seems like impossible speeds.

He cries out as he rams backwards into the far end of the car, the priority seat managing to break his fall but not protecting him from a host of bruising he feels lay into his shoulders and torso. He scrambles to shift back to his feet, searching for handholds to grab onto as he attempts to regain his balance. The train seems to be moving at light speed, hurtling through the darkness so rapidly it's as if he's caught in a wind tunnel.

Painstakingly, he drops down to his hands and knees and works to crawl his way back towards the front. The floor of the vehicle is hot underneath his palms, the engine overheating. If he doesn't end up crushed in an inevitable collision giving how horrifically fast they're moving, he's pretty certain getting blown sky high in the transmission explosion is the next most likely outcome.

He grapples his way to the standing bar, grabbing hold with both hands and pulling himself back to his feet. His hair whips in his eyes, allowing him to leave them open just a squint to make out whatever he might be careening towards in front of him.

Slowly, something comes into focus on the other side of the windshield. Light. Bright, white light, so intense it's impossible to look at yet immensely difficult to look away from. His logical mind tells him it has to be another train, that he's destined for a headfirst impact. But they keep plowing forward regardless, so he figures he's in for the ride whether he ends up smeared on the tracks or not.

He closes his eyes, bracing himself for the worst and visualizing her one last time. That smile, those eyes, that immeasurable warmth.

Then the train lunges into the light, and everything goes numb.


	3. segue - her name

_When he opens his eyes again, it's a relief to find no engine humming beneath his feet. No excessive speeds giving him whiplash or promising him a fiery end. In fact, when he opens his eyes he's no longer in the train car at all._

 _He's standing in a hallway, lockers surrounding him on either side. Unlike the city from which he came, there's nothing jagged or sharp about this existence. Everything is soft-edged, rosy, blurring away imperfections. He can sense automatically that where he's standing isn't reality, but it's closer to it than he thinks he's been in a quite a while._

 _At the other end of the hall, a group of figures is crowded by one of the open lockers. Something about the image feels familiar, like he should recognize it, but it's not the first scenery he's failed to remember and he's sure it's not going to be the last._

 _Although many of the silhouettes passing him by remain anonymous, indiscernible and out of focus, one is so richly apparent to him it makes everything else in the image pale in comparison. She's in high-definition, so welcome and brilliant in his eyes that she almost glows with a little bit of gold._

 _She must sense him, because she disengages from the conversation with her circle of silhouettes to turn around and face him. She examines him for a long moment, before the effortless smile blooms across her face and melts all of his insecurity away. Even so far apart, a whole stretch of hallway between them, he feels like she's right there next to him. He feels like he's closer than ever._

 _"There you are," she says tenderly, tilting her head at him in that way that makes his limbs tingle. "I knew you would make it."_

 _He wants to say something, anything, but he's rooted to the spot and unable to vocalize his emotions. How happy he is to see her, how relieved he is to know she's there, how he wishes to assure her that everything is going to be fine. That he's going to be there soon._

 _Even so, she seems to know all of this without his word. Her smile conveys a sense of peace, an acceptance that he'll find his way back to her eventually. No matter how desperately he wants it to happen now._

 _Lovingly, she holds out a hand. Waiting for him to take it._

 _"We were just talking about you."_

 _Suddenly, another burst of clarity. The image is already beginning to fade, falling away and dissolving into the darkness, but the strike of inspiration remains. Even when he's totally consumed in darkness once again, the memory is enough to keep him feeling as though he's bathing in warm light._

 _Because he knows. He knows her._

 _"Riley."_


	4. guilt

The first thing he's aware of when he comes around again is the prodding.

The pain has subsided somewhat, but this jabbing follows no pattern and is far from friendly. He has the faintest recollection of when such a touch might feel good—an elbow in the side from a friend, a teasing gesture, a poke in the ribs when Riley is nudging him to get out of bed in the morning—but this is not of that variety.

With this dig, there's absolutely no warmth in the gesture. But it does bully him into consciousness.

He's cognizant of the changed terrain considering how the ground no longer feels coarse underneath him. Rather than the grit of concrete he's reclined against something much more lulling, a sweet grass or long grain. It would be nice, under different circumstances and without the constant prod in the abdomen.

When he opens his eyes, he can't help but gasp at how close his new company is. She's just finishing a nasty jab to his ribcage, icy blue eyes turning to fixate on him when she sees she's finally managed to rouse him.

Despite the playful gleam in her eyes, her expression can only be summed up by one word: disgust.

" _What_ are you?"

He figures he could ask her the same question, but he's not sure she'd grant him an answer or if he'd even understand it if she did. As far as he can tell he's still far from home, so he decides to focus on the one thing he does understand.

"Is she here?" He makes to sit up, causing her to back off and give him a little more space. Warier of getting so up close and personal, now that he's moving and breathing.

Still, she maintains an impressively disdainful expression at his expense. She cocks her head, ratty blonde ponytail bobbing off her shoulder. "What she?"

"Riley." Even just saying the name gives him a renewed sense of purpose, another shot of adrenaline. He can't believe he ever forgot it, even for an instant. It's so deeply embedded inside him he doesn't see how it could have slipped away. "I have to find Riley. Where is she?"

Blondie hesitates, and although she proceeds to play dumb he sees the way her features shift. For the briefest of seconds, recognition flashes through her features and colors her shocked until she reacts quickly enough to pull it back together.

Whatever she tells him, she knows more than she's letting on. And if she knows that, she'll know how to get out of here.

"I've never heard of that," she claims. "But now this makes more sense. You must be a mortal. Making up lots of crazy things because there's no other way to cope."

He doesn't know what the hell she's talking about, so he doesn't see how he's the crazy one. But he figures she probably isn't worth the argument. "If I'm a mortal, then what does that make you?"

"You don't seem much like anything to me," she continues, pointedly ignoring the question. She watches with amusement as he struggles to his feet again, taking in his new surroundings. She sticks her lower lip out, pouting mockingly until it twists into a smirk. "You know what you do seem like?"

He humors her for the sake of expediting the process. "What do I seem like to you?"

"Most mortals, they're all the same. Like sheep. You corral 'em one way, you corral 'em another, they follow wherever the herd goes. I'd say you were the same." She hesitates, examining him thoughtfully and crossing her arms. "But then, maybe you're not. Because here you are, where you're not supposed to be."

He doesn't pay much attention to her rant, distracted by absorbing his new locale. It's decidedly more drab than the crumbling cityscape from before, nothing but an ongoing field of wild grass spreading out in every direction. He can't discern where the meadow begins or ends, and although he's not sure what belongs there in its place he's almost certain the view should have more color. Something differentiating the washes of grey drowning the horizon.

But some of it must be coming back to him, because there are little details that seem to pop with pigment such as the cool blue of Blondie's eyes or the gold of her hair. When he gets a good look at her they seem to fade to monochrome, but when she's in his peripheral he catches glimpses of it.

Another distinct sensation of his former life, drifting just out of reach.

"I didn't choose to come here," he says.

"Few people do."

"But I'm intending to get out. So maybe you can help me with that, if my presence irks you so much." He faces her, giving her an expectant look. "What do you say?"

Blondie examines him curiously, obviously contemplating her options. After a long period of silence she quirks an eyebrow, offering him a curt nod and a tight smile.

"Sure," she says sweetly, but there's a hint of an edge to the affirmation that leaves him feeling sour. "It would be my pleasure."

She takes off in leading the way, the two of them beginning a long trudge through the pasture in pursuit of seemingly nothing. Even though the effort seems futile his guide assures him they're headed in the right direction, as the field eventually levels out to a new domain where he'll be able to proceed further. But she dodges all his other queries, so he can tell that she's not exactly an escort he can trust.

He doesn't start to feel the additional burden until they're about halfway through their trek.

It's subtle at first—almost like a cobweb, draping over him and leaving him a little more fatigued than before. Each step deeper into the field seems to weigh on him like an additional grain of sand, stacking up on the balance of his back until the damage begins to become perceptible.

By that point, they've gone so far and he's gotten so much closer. He doesn't want to let go of this opportunity, so he shrugs his shoulders to brush away the sensation and marches onward.

But the heaviness only grows. First bit by bit, then exponentially, like he's carrying the weight of the sky on his shoulders. And with it, another odd carry-on, memories floating back into his conscious mind that he decides he must've purposefully tried to forget.

A misspoken word that left a loved one hurt. A school yard fight gone awry that turned into brutalization and took a year of his academic life. The fear of making a decision that would hurt one friend that he makes no decisions at all, wounding everyone much deeper in the process. Regret after regret, miniscule to monumental, gathering on his back like cargo.

When he finally thinks he can see the horizon—unless he's delirious from the fatigue—the burden takes its toll. He loses his footing in the grass and goes tumbling down to his knees, suddenly so encumbered by the ghosts of his past he can't seem to regain his footing.

"What's—," he winces, falling onto his elbows, inching forward in spite of the pain. "What's happening to me?"

Blondie walks in front of him, clearly not experiencing the same exhaustion. She shrugs plaintively, picking at her fingernails. "Depending on who you ask, some might call it sin. Mistakes. Repentances."

He grits his teeth, pulling himself forward despite how heavy the weight is and how mollifying the grass is beneath him. It's no comfort at all—it's a deterrent, specially crafted to placate any determination he might have left in him.

"Me? I prefer guilt. Simple and to the point." She watches in amusement as he painstakingly crawls past her, not taking much effort to nudge him with her foot and knock him onto his side. "Everybody's got some. No matter how damn angelic you are."

When he collapses onto his back, it's as if all the heaviness settles squarely on his chest. It knocks the wind out of him, threatening to squeeze all the air out of his lungs he spent so much effort refilling. Sending a wave of terror through him at the prospect of losing it again.

Blondie appears over him, tilting her head and giving him another impish grin. There's absolutely no warmth, but unlike his shadow companion, there's no curiosity in the movement either. Only masochism. Nothing remotely human about it.

"Wouldn't it just be easier to give up?" she questions. "I mean, considering all that weight, do you even deserve to go back? After everything you seem to have done?"

He can't listen to her. In fact, he can't focus on anything but the way the blood is pounding in his ears from how quickly he's becoming oxygen-starved. He opens his mouth to suck in a choked breath, frantically attempting to flip back onto his stomach.

Then he sees it. The horizon line. A new domain. Inches from where he's trapped, sprawled in the wild grass.

He closes his eyes, and all he lets himself think about is her. Not the ache in his bones, not the way his lungs are constricting and the sadistic laughter of the not-so-human companion behind him. Just Riley, and her smile, and her hand waiting outstretched for him to take. For him to meet her there.

With shaky hands, he painstakingly pulls himself another inch forward. Then another. He's so out of breath he feels like his head might explode, but he's moving. He's still going.

Blondie seems to humor him just until he makes it to the edge, likely so he can see what he spent all that effort and energy crawling towards.

It's not a line at all—it's a cliff's edge, dropping off into God knows what. Nothing but an abyss of blackness below him, promising certain death if he teeters too far off the edge. Another dead end, and this time there's no getaway car to speed him into the light.

Pain erupts across his back as he's suddenly yanked onto his side, landing hard on his back in the grass as his faux guide keeps him careened in this domain. She intensifies the weight pressing down on him, digging a foot into his waist and leaning in close so she can revel in the full effect of her taunts.

"I told you no one chooses to come here, sheep," she spits. He fights to breathe, clawing at her added weight on his chest but finding no relief in any capacity. "And believe me when I tell you no one gets out. If it were that easy, everybody would."

The suffocation seems to ease in from all sides, slowly crushing him. The load of his own missteps, his own misguided actions and mistakes that are the hallmark of the human experience. As the edges of his vision begin to smudge into darkness, he takes one more look at the plunging cliff dive that marks his only other escape.

It seems he's dead no matter which way he throws the dice. But at least if he takes the hard way, it was his decision.

"And now, I'm going to do you a favor and send you back to the herd," she sneers. "So long, Sundance."

One step closer to Riley, or else he'll die trying.

"Like hell you are," he wheezes, using whatever energy he has left in his screaming muscles to shove her off of him. The moment her minimal weight is removed from the equation he doesn't waste a second, flopping onto his side and rolling right off the cliff's edge.

He can her hear scream even as he's cascading down into the darkness, decidedly less human the longer her shriek rings in his ears. Then it's just the rush and roar of an eternal freefall, sending him in pursuit of another inevitable impact that's doomed to be fatal.

He doesn't know whether he deserves to get back or not. He doesn't know if he ever deserved her in the first place. Considering he still doesn't even know who he is, it's a fool's bet to make a guess either way.

All he knows is that somewhere out there, Riley is waiting for him to come home.


	5. segue - his name

_When he finally meets the end, the blow is softer than he expected. Cushioned inexplicably, a severe crash quickly dulls into a muffled, hazy descent as he drifts deeper and deeper into darkness. There's something distinctly cold about his new surroundings, stinging in a way that's refreshing rather than painful._

 _Water. He's underwater._

 _Carefully, he blinks his eyes open. True to his perception, he's floating just beneath the surface of a body of water of some kind, the sunlight gleaming just above him but rippling out of his reach. Even as he attempts to swim to the surface, he only gets pulled further and further down._

 _"Lucas."_

 _The declaration of his name rings in his ears, echoing through the ocean around him like a sonar. He sluggishly spins around, searching for the source of the voice. Trying not to think about how much longer he can survive submerged considering the strain his lungs have already endured._

 _Through the deep blue of the water, a shadow seems to materialize. Even without full clearness he can recognize her, her presence calming him even in a situation as dire as this one. The foggier his head grows the stronger her image becomes, floating a few feet in front of him and confusingly dry. Totally oblivious to their current location._

 _"Lucas," she sighs. Her tone is so endeared, he thinks it must hurt._

 _It must hurt to love someone so much._

 _She tilts her head, offering him a fond smile. "You always claim nothing ever happens to you, yet somehow I'm always pulling you out of trouble."_

 _She outstretches her hand, beckoning him forward and wiggling her fingers. Still waiting for him._

 _He feels leaden. Every ounce of him is suddenly a thousand pounds, weighing him down and coaxing him deeper into the sea. But her pull on him is stronger, a sense of gravity more powerful than anything he's ever known._

 _Slowly, he raises his arm to reach for her. Even with the world clouding to black around him, if he can take her hand, he knows he'll be okay. He knows he'll find his way back to her._

 _Inches apart. Centimeters. The sunlight growing stronger against the surface above them._

 _For an instant, his fingertips graze hers. For the briefest of moments, she's in his reach and oxygen seems to fill his lungs again. The blackness fades from the corners of his vision, overpowered with light._

 _The sunlight seems to sink into the ocean, blinding him as he loses his grip. She's gone from him once again, but all hope doesn't seem lost. In fact, as his world is consumed in blinding white, he's certain he hears her laugh._

 _"Lucas Friar."_


	6. what doesn't kill you

Lucas doesn't get the chance to process the fact that he has suddenly regained his sense of self, at least somewhat. He doesn't get the chance to ruminate over the foggy memories in his head that are starting to come back into focus, or how the images around Riley in his mind are starting to grow sharper and more vivid. He doesn't get the chance to do any of this, because what's occupying all of his attention is how he can't breathe.

He's submerged, but something tells him he's no longer underwater. The substance surrounding him is too thick, too slick to be water. He can't see inches in front of him when he opens his eyes, and he can hardly open them anyway due to how severely they begin to sting. The stench is acrid, and when he attempts to breathe his whole body is overwhelmed with convulsions. Whatever this is, he's definitely not supposed to ingest it.

Whatever it is, it's definitely not water.

Frantic, Lucas holds his breath and sluggishly begins to push his way upward—what he believes is upward. Closer to the surface, desperate to break out of the toxic hold his current surroundings have on him.

When he finally rises above the surface, the gasp of air he inhales is less refreshing than he hoped. The atmosphere is dense, muggy and humid and radiating the same kind of industrial odor he's half-sinking beneath.

He wipes at his eyes, struggling to keep himself afloat. The substance doesn't slip off of him like water—it clings to his skin and weighs him down, slowly creeping down his forehead and shoulders and back of his neck. He feels absolutely noxious, resisting the urge to vomit even though he's certain it's been far too long since he's eaten.

"Intruder!" The sudden presence of the voice startles him, yanking him out of his panic. He manages to swivel around, searching for the source of the declaration. "No trespassing in the oil quarry!"

Oil. He's drenched in oil.

He finds the stranger waiting by the bed of the quarry, only distinguishable from the hazy reds and browns of their surroundings because of his eyes. They're bright blue, practically glowing amidst the dreary terrain. He stiffly extends an arm and points straight at him, uttering the same warning.

"Intruder! No trespassing in the oil quarry!"

"I'm not—," Lucas starts, cutting himself off when he loses his momentum and nearly slips back under the surface. He's not going to ingest any more toxic substances, if he can help it. Painstakingly, he continues to swim in the direction of the edge of the quarry. "I'm not an intruder."

"Intruder," the man states, rattling off the definition as if it's programmed into his memory. "A person who intrudes, especially into a building with criminal intent. You're currently intruding in the oil quarry, are you not?"

He's so close to the edge. With a little help, he's pretty sure he could make it out. The question is whether or not this strange new guide is going to be a helping hand, or something else entirely.

Considering he's already pinning criminal charges on him, they're not off to a great start.

"Maybe so," Lucas relents. "But I'm not here with criminal intent. I don't intend to be here at all."

The man tilts his head, and the gesture is unlike anything Lucas has ever seen. It's not like Riley, or his former hosts. In fact, it's barely human. The more he comes into focus, the less normal he seems to be. But Lucas has little time to dwell on it when he's mere seconds from drowning.

"That does not compute," he argues. "If you do not intend to be here, then how is it that you are here? Logically, that does not check out."

"You're telling me."

After a moment of observation, the man frowns. His eyes seem to glow a little brighter, indicating curiosity. "There seem to be many factors to your presence that are not quite logical. Not quite what meets the eye. If you do not intend to be here, then where do you intend to be?"

"I can tell you," Lucas assures him. He reaches the side of the quarry, feeling exhaustion from staying afloat creep into his muscles. "But first, you have to help me out of here."

He reaches out a hand, praying to whoever might be listening that he'll take it. That as his only remaining lifeline, he'll act as a friend rather than a foe.

After a painfully long period of deliberation, he seems to reach a decision. Awkwardly, he lowers down his arms and offers his hands to Lucas to take. Together, they work through the slippery task of pulling him out of the quarry.

The moment he's on solid ground the stranger releases him, Lucas collapsing onto his back against the asphalt. It stings lightly as pieces of gravel dig into his skin, but he doesn't care. It's nice to have a moment of relief, a chance to catch his breath and reassess his situation.

He still has no idea where he is. He has no idea how he's supposed to get back where he belongs, or if there's even a way to do so. Although so much still remains a mystery that dangles just out of his reach, he has the fragments of an identity now. He has a purpose.

He has her. If it's gotten him this far, he has to figure she's enough.

Ignoring the discomfort of being so thoroughly coated in grease, Lucas continues to smear the oil off of his face and reorient to his new surroundings. Blinking up at the sky above him, he's not surprised to find an eerie overcast of storm clouds. They're copper and blending with the haze of smoke and brimstone, seemingly aglow with their own hidden fire. Beyond them, the sky seems dark and infinitely black.

He doesn't know where the image comes from, but he's suddenly hit with a wave of nostalgia and the picture of a preferably lighter sky. A few wispy white clouds drifting through an impossibly calm sky, awash in a pleasant shade he can remember as blue. He's always liked blue.

Wherever Riley is, he knows that's where all of this is too. The blue skies, the summer rain, the sense of identity and belonging and peace. None of which will ever exist here. That much he knows for certain, even if his understanding of the world around him otherwise is essentially non-existent.

The stranger breaks him out of his thoughts, obscuring his vision of the haze as he leans over to peer at him. For what it's worth, he seems just as curious and confused about his appearance as Lucas is about his.

"You're quite the fleshy specimen. Cannot recall ever seeing one like you in this realm, even as far back as the database will allow me." He blinks, his eyelids clicking as they close and slide back open again. When he reaches out a hand to touch Lucas's jaw, his touch is cold. "Although your cell arrangement is remarkable. Near perfectly aligned for the optimal viewing experience."

Lucas shoves his hand away, frowning as he makes to sit up. He can feel the duress of everything he's already fought through aching through every inch of him. It begs him to give it up, to collapse back onto the ground and relent so he can fade back into the blacktop and into nothingness.

But he's not giving up. He's not a quitter, he remembers, and even more so when it comes to Riley there's nothing he won't do. As he understands it, this may be the most important thing he ever does.

"You do not belong here," he fills in, tone betraying nothing simply because Lucas is starting to get the feeling he can't display such range by design. "Do you?"

Lucas exhales, shaking his head. He glances up at his new companion. "No. No, I don't."

He pushes onto his knees, working his way to his feet. The stranger steps forward and offers a hand, helping him upright and keeping him stable as he adjusts to this new posture.

Getting a good look at him, it's abundantly clear that he's inhuman in a much more obvious way than either of his former guides were. His bright eyes are only the beginning—his entire body seems to be made of machine parts, pieces of metal bridged together like joints and forming what passably replicates a human figure. There are odd places where flesh seems to graft together with the steel, forming a patchwork of existence that's neither fully human nor automaton. He's a nothing, something that's not supposed to exist much in the way he sees Lucas as out of the ordinary.

The dark shade of his torso metal seems to create what looks like a turtleneck sweater, and so that's all Lucas can think of while he's processing the shock of the rest of him. Aside from his eyes, it's the most human thing about him.

"Your vitals appear weak," Turtleneck comments, harshly brushing his shoulders and smearing some of the grease off of him. "Fluctuating. Inconsistent. Admittedly, they are hard to trace. Prone to error upon reading."

All Lucas can do is nod. He's not even sure what state of life he's currently inhabiting, but considering everything he's experienced so far he's pretty sure it's not full conscious life. Whatever state he's in where Riley is, he has the sinking feeling it's impacted by whatever the hell he's doing down here.

"That's why I have to get out. I need you to direct me out of here, wherever that is." He locks eyes with him, hoping to convey the importance of his mission without having to say much of anything at all. It feels so intrinsically imperative to him, he can't imagine how anyone else could see it differently. "Can you do that? Do you know how to get out of here?"

Turtleneck blinks, clicking again. His eyes dim slightly, portraying something along the lines of unease. "Technically, yes. I know all of the pathways and metrics of this landscape, including entry points and exit routes."

"Great. That's perfect."

"Imperfect," he corrects, an odd whirring coming from some part of his upper body. It ceases before Lucas can locate the source. "I cannot guarantee that the exit route will be tailored for a being such as yourself. We rarely have your kind here, as I explained."

Lucas sighs, already resigned to the possibility. Considering how his other transitions have been thus far, he's far from shocked. "Believe me, I'm used to the unorthodox. I'll take whatever you've got."

After a beat of hesitation, Turtleneck seems to make an internal decision. He nods, a gesture that comes off more like a knee-jerk twitch than an actual indication of agreement. "Then it is settled. I estimate that your vitals should sustain you long enough for us to cross the terrain. Let us hope my calculations are not too generous."

The two of them trudge their way across the concrete, making their way towards wherever Turtleneck's inner systems deem as the most appropriate exit. Lucas attempts to get a good look at his surroundings as they explore, but everything is shrouded in such a thick haze of smog and hued with the same shade of ember it's hard to make out distinct shapes. Rising above them is a constant slew of steam, seemingly floating off the very existence of the scenery around them.

He can believe it, considering how humid it is. The layers of grease and oil begin to slide away as they walk, replaced with a sheen of sweat from the heavy presence of the air.

It feels like another ghost of a memory, one of which he can just barely scratch the surface. It's muggy like this, but bright and colorful with earthy greens and bright blue skies. There's laughter, of friends maybe, friends he can't yet recall but he knows must be waiting wherever Riley is as well. They're in his mind, vague opaque silhouettes rather than people he actively remembers.

Yet, he can't shake the feeling he's building clues for himself without even realizing. Like the fact that Turtleneck's eyes are the piece that makes him feel most humane—he wonders if it's less so because the part itself is so designed, or if there's something familiar about them, about him as a whole, that is laying just out of his mental reach.

"Where you came from," Turtleneck interrupts his thoughts, footsteps noisy beside his with the clanking of his joints. "Do you recall it?"

Reluctantly, Lucas shakes his head.

"What about where you are going, then?" He shifts his gaze to examine him, curiosity brightening those peculiar luminescent eyes again. "When you find the exit route, where do you expect it to take you?"

This, Lucas knows without having to think about it. Just reminding himself of his purpose sends another shot of adrenaline through him, motivating his footfalls to be a little faster and his persistence to push him a little farther.

"Riley."

"I do not understand. I do not know of a 'Riley.' Is that a realm?"

"No. At least, I don't think so." Lucas hesitates, not sure he wants to go down this rabbit hole with another one of his guides. The first one didn't comprehend it since he didn't have the words, the last one nearly killed him for it.

But Turtleneck seems far from antagonistic. And the more he's able to talk about her, the less he feels as though he's just making her up. The more he speaks her into existence, the more likely it feels that she may actually be real.

"She's a person," he clarifies. Then he corrects the statement, searching for the words to make it ring more true. "She's my person."

"That is a curious way to phrase such a description. Your person? Do you own her?"

"No. Not like that. It's…" The expression on Turtleneck's face is relatively blank, so Lucas figures trying to explain the complexities of what Riley means to him is a lost cause. "It's complicated."

Turtleneck pauses, obviously processing the pieces of conversation they've had already to try to puzzle together the situation in a way he can digest it. Considering Lucas doesn't exactly understand the situation either, he figures he's going to be stumped for a while.

"So, this Riley. She is the reason you are trying to find the exit? Not for your own purposes?"

Lucas tilts his head back and forth, contemplating. "It's more of both. It's for me, and my own well-being, but it's also for her. It started for her, because she was the only thing I could remember. So in that sense, I think it's for both of us. We're tied together in that way, I suppose."

"A strange tangled motivation," Turtleneck comments. He's whirring again, but this sounds somehow more excited than uncertain. "What would you call it?"

Lucas can hardly remember his own name, let alone entire sensations or complex human understandings. But this one jumps out of him almost effortlessly, perhaps because it's so tied to Riley and her memory in his head that it seems almost impossible to forget.

"It's called love, I think."

"Love." Turtleneck hesitates, clicking again. When he speaks, the words come out like a recitation rather than the sharing of a known concept. "A great interest and pleasure in something. A deep romantic or sexual attachment to someone. An intense feeling of deep affection."

"Yeah," Lucas agrees, figuring all of the above is factual in some capacity. "You know it?"

Turtleneck doesn't respond for a long moment. The light in his eyes dims slightly, before he turns his head to look at him.

"I am not programmed to understand such things."

He says it flatly, without emotion, but Lucas gets the sense that it's more impactful to him than he lets on. It's similar to how he felt when he first woke up in that desolate cityscape, grasping at straws and empty save for the one memory of his girl. He can't remember what there is to miss, but the ache that resonates through his bones because of all that he's lost persists regardless.

Turtleneck has never comprehended love, never understood it, but he can feel the ache its absence leaves behind. Whether or not he ever fills it is irrelevant.

Lucas searches for something to say, assurances to provide this robotic stranger even though he's not sure there are any. But Turtleneck saves him the trouble, grinding to a halt and waiting for him to do the same. When they come to a standstill, he stiffly raises his arm and extends a finger in the direction just in front of them.

"There." He stares straight ahead, eyes intensifying to brighten the path. "The exit route."

For what it's worth, nothing about what lies in front of them seems much like an exit. In fact, it's more and more red clay up until it hits a literal wall, obsidian stone and towering about five stories above them. It occurs to Lucas that this structure isn't out of the ordinary—now that he pays more attention, the whole area seems to be boxed in by these obtrusive walls. Keeping out the rest of the world. Keeping out the light.

"That doesn't look much like an exit," he says warily, stepping forward to get a better look.

He hears the tell-tale creaking of another nod from Turtleneck. "It's not forward. It is up. Up and over the edge."

Lucas's eyes are wide. "You want me to scale this thing?"

"Incorrect. You are the one who wants to utilize the exit. I, as it stands, have no wants."

He has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. He supposes he doubted the task would ever be simple—none of his escapes thus far have given him reason to believe otherwise—so he figures having to climb a five-story wall with no tools or harness is just about what he should've anticipated.

Shrugging and releasing a sigh, he begins his trek towards the other end of the clearing. But the procession is too quiet, and it takes him a moment to realize his progress lacks the usual clanging of his cyborg companion.

When he turns around, his observations are confirmed. Turtleneck has not made any movement to follow him, standing rigid at where they last stopped.

Lucas doubles back to join him again, brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you waiting for? Come on."

Stiffly, Turtleneck shakes his head. "This is as far as I am permitted to progress. My internal programming prevents me from further movement with risk of complete degeneration should I proceed any closer."

He has no idea what any of that means, but he recognizes a goodbye when he hears it. He doesn't know if there's simply something oddly charming about all its robotic idiosyncrasies or whether those memories that are slowly starting to creep back into his consciousness are coloring the situation more sentimental than it is, but he realizes he's going to miss the quirky companionship of his automaton attendant.

Or perhaps, there's someone else deep in the recesses of his memory that he's been missing for far longer, and the fragments he's projecting into this world are starting to come up to the surface.

"Well, thank you," he finally says. When he offers a light smile, it feels like one of the few genuine ones he's given in too long. "For all your help."

Turtleneck hesitates, processing these words. The creak of another jerky nod signals as much sentimentality as he figures he's going to get in response. "I hope that you make it to where you belong."

Lucas's smile widens. He nods back, allowing the moment to sink in before trekking forward on another impossible task. For just a second, it's nice to pause in a moment that doesn't feel completely overrun with darkness.

Then, it's shattered in an instant. Turtleneck suddenly convulses and comes to stand ram-rod straight, his blue eyes blinking from their usual cerulean to a blaring, bold crimson. When he speaks again, his statement sounds even less human than usual.

"Danger," he reports, all emotion removed from his tone but more chilling in his delivery than Lucas has heard before. His eyes fixate on him, sending goosebumps down his arms. "Danger!"

Turtleneck convulses again, joints sparking as he's released from the possession. Lucas steps forward to help him but peels back the moment he brushes his metallic arm, burned at the touch by how hot his system has become. Underneath them, some sort of movement causes a tremor in the earth. Turtleneck buckles, collapsing noisily to his knees.

Steam begins to leak out from the exposed wiring as his joints seem to loosen. When he locks eyes with him, one is back to bright blue while the other remains uncomfortably bright red.

"Go," he urges. "It is coming. You have to go."

"What's happening?"

Turtleneck shakes his head, and a spring pops out from his jaw. He's falling apart before his eyes, as if someone flipped a switch and hit the self-destruct button. "They have found you. They are sending it after you. If you—,"

"But what about you? What's happening to you?"

"If you want to get to Riley," Turtleneck rattles, cutting off his questions. "Then you have to go. Now."

Lucas doesn't get the chance to argue any further. In the next moment Turtleneck stumbles forward and collapses, pieces popping out of place and turning him to a pile of scrap metal on the asphalt. He resists the urge to gag at the sight, dropping to his knees next to the remains of his temporary friend and watching as the light in his eyes slowly dims to nothing.

He doesn't get time to dwell on it. Before he can even form a coherent thought a new threat occupies his attention, a loud huffing emanating from farther back by the horizon. Slowly, Lucas gets back to his feet, rotating to face the source of the noise.

All he can see is steam. Steam, and the hulking shadow of a monster looming against the rust-colored haze. Then, a new pair of eyes breaks through the darkness. Blood orange, searing, boring into him and blazing like fire.

When the creature rears up and bellows, the entire scenery seems to quake. Lucas cringes, covering his ears even though the pain that rips through them indicates they've likely already suffered irreversible damage. When he pulls his hands back, he can feel them coated with something wet.

The wall. He has to get to the wall.

Without waiting to see what the demon does next, Lucas takes off in the other direction. Another bellow rips through the air, upsetting his footing as he sprints as hard as he can towards the exit route.

He knows he has seconds and can't afford to waste any of them. The moment he's close enough to the wall he makes to start climbing, searching for footholds, cracks, anything that'll give him a shred of support.

There are none. The wall is insidiously smooth, cold to the touch, and not one imperfection offers a clue as to where to start. He's right at the exit, but he's just as trapped as ever.

The ground trembles again as the footfalls of the monster grow heavier. He's trapped, and he's about to be flattened.

He whips around just in time to duck, shielding his face as the creature rams into where he was standing moments earlier. He hears the wall crack, and glancing upwards he sees two enormous, metallic curved horns spearing into the surface of it behind him.

Swallowing hard, he forces himself to face it.

A bull. A gargantuan, gleaming bull, more frightening and full of rage than he thinks he's ever seen anything be before. And somehow, eerily designed just perfectly to him and his forgotten former traumas considering how instantly the panic seems to erupt and scatter across his shoulder blades.

He utilizes the brief advantage he has while the bull attempts to dislodge itself from the wall, rolling underneath it and breaking into another desperate run. But there's nowhere to go. He's effectively in the bull pen, nowhere to go but in circles and the exit far out of his conceivable reach. Not to mention surrounded by endless shades of red.

He hears more foundation crumble as the bull wails, tearing itself free and whipping around to find him again. It zeroes in on him faster than he can react, darting towards him and ramming its hooves into his torso.

He should be dead. The blow is powerful enough to launch him backwards, sending him ramming into the wall as thousands of prickles of pain explode across his side when he hits the ground. He's temporarily winded, blinded from the agony and shocked he didn't fall to pieces like his former guide. He pushes himself to his hands and knees, touching his face and finding that same wetness dripping from his nose and mouth.

He knows what it's supposed to be. But like everything else, it's slightly off, thick and black against his fingertips rather than the usual red.

Suddenly, he has his doubts about what was flowing through the quarry that he nearly drowned in moments ago.

Another bellow from his playmate reminds him he's running out of time. He may have managed to withstand the first blow, but he knows he's not going to last much longer in the ring with an adversary like this unless he devises a way out. He's just signing his tombstone if he convinces himself otherwise.

Suddenly, another inkling of a memory comes back to him as he stares down the bull. Not a visual, not Riley, but a voice. A message of encouragement.

 _Ride the bull._

The idea sounds insane, another death wish in a realm that seems to have an endless supply. But something about the voice in his head makes him want to trust it. It speaks with confidence, like its survived it before. Like it knows what its talking about. And it's the most familiar he's yet to feel with a memory, almost like it's a part of himself. Some version of himself he's struggling to remember, still lost deep in his subconscious and screaming to wake up.

Regardless, he has to make a decision. The bull digs its shiny hoof into the ground, pawing at the dirt and shaking its head so that it makes a full, clanking 360-degree rotation. Then, it begins another stampede towards him, what could very well be the last thing he ever sees.

 _Ride the bull!_

He chooses to trust the voice. He chooses to trust himself.

He dives out of the way just in time, ignoring the ache in his muscles as the bull rams into the wall again. In the few seconds that it's immobilized, Lucas darts forward and leaps onto its back, clawing his way more securely on top of the beast.

The bellow it releases in response feels like it resonates right through him. It shakes the whole world and rattles his skull, and the way the metal underneath him is heating up cannot be a good sign. But at least he did something. At least, as he recalls, it was still his decision.

 _Four seconds_ , the voice promises. _Just four seconds._

A simple enough request. Then the bull starts moving.

 _Four._

Lucas honestly can't even be certain he'll last one second. Everything is a blur, and every bone in his body seems to be threatening to turn to dust from the amount of pressure it takes to hold on.

 _Three._

His hands are burning, he's out of breath, he doesn't see how he's going to keep holding on. Not when everything around him seems designed to throw him.

 _Two._

The bull decides to get smart and rams into the wall again, Lucas disoriented and too slow to react. His arm gets caught in the collision, surely shattering all the bones in his limb and sending so much pain through him at once it renders him numb. He screams, but he can't hear it over the wail of the bull. And it doesn't matter much anyway.

 _One._

The bull releases one last bellow and bucks, exerting so much force that it sends Lucas soaring up into the air. Seemingly another freefall, only in the opposite direction. He closes his eyes, bracing himself for impact.

It comes, only not in the way he's expecting.

He hits a hard surface sooner than anticipated, the wind knocking out of him as his torso seems to find solid ground. His lower half is dangling and he's slipping fast, prompting him to open his eyes so he can get a grip on the situation.

The wall. He's hit the wall, propelling him straight to the top and allowing him a chance over the edge. He exhales a broken cough, utilizing his one good arm to painstakingly pull himself up onto the ledge.

The view from the top isn't any better from the one below. In fact, objectively, it's far worse.

Lucas honestly can't even make out exactly what he's seeing beyond the safety of the walls, because his brain can't seem to process it. So much horror, so much pain and torture and hatred it burns to look at. He drops down to crouch and averts his gaze, glancing back towards the other side of the wall.

The bull is still in a frenzy, seemingly hell bent on full destruction. It continuously rams into the wall below him, causing his balance to shake and bit by bit chipping away at the weak foundations that seem to keep him tethered between this realm and wherever the exit is supposed to take him next.

He frowns, glancing out towards the absolute terror waiting for him on the other side. He doesn't know if that's what he's going to get—it's impossible to tell what's real and what isn't and he gave up searching for the difference long ago—but if it's all he's got left then so be it. If it's the only thing standing in the way of getting back home, then he figures he'll have to face it eventually.

With one more successful ram from the bull, the wall begins crumble beneath him. Lucas thinks fast and slides off the other side, hurtling towards the ground just as a barrage of rubble comes tumbling down on top of him.


	7. segue - and the rest

_He's resting. Wherever he is, it's so nice to be resting._

 _When he opens his eyes, the perfect blue sky is stretching on endlessly above him. Wispy clouds float by, promising the comfort of a lazy day and an indisputable sense of calm. The surface beneath him is soft, comfortable. Blithely familiar, even if the facts of it are still missing from his memory._

 _He knows this image isn't quite right. Isn't quite real. He's accepted that by this point. But he knows this is a place he can take a minute to breathe. To let his bones mend, his wounds heal, somewhere he's safe. Safe without a shadow of a doubt._

 _It's so incredibly nice to be resting._

 _"You amaze me," she says, so much closer than ever before. He'd be startled if he weren't so desensitized. "You know that?"_

 _Slowly, he tilts his head to the side. Following the sound of her voice._

 _Riley is laying there next to him, reclined back against the familiar-yet-unfamiliar mattress. She's right at home, clueing him in to the fact that this bed most likely belongs to her. Because of course it does. It's where he feels safe, so it has to belong to her._

 _He wonders how often he's been in this exact position. He wonders how many times the two of them have laid here just like this, sharing the familiarity and the comfort and the warmth. All those remnants of a relationship that he can't recall, but act as the most powerful source of motivation he's ever known._

 _"It's hard," Lucas says timidly. He's not sure whether the shyness stems from the risk of admitting weakness so openly, or because he worries if he speaks to her she'll be ripped away from him yet again. She'll evaporate and he'll be dropped into whatever hell he's supposed to endure next._

 _He's not ready to leave. He's not ready to lose her again._

 _She gives him a sympathetic smile. "I know."_

 _"I'm so tired."_

 _"I know."_

 _Lucas sighs, tilting his head back towards the clouds. For a moment, he soaks in the feeling of being so physically at ease. No aching bones, no trails of blood. Just her and the sense of safety so prominent it's practically intoxicating. How easily he could drift off into sleep and never have to face another challenge. How easy it would be to sleep._

 _But he knows it's not real. And his fight isn't over yet._

 _"I have to keep going."_

 _Riley blinks at him. Her nose crinkles, conveying an internal debate of her own. "Only if you want to."_

 _He turns to lock eyes with her again, searching hers for answers. Absorbing all of the comfort he can derive from them before he persists onward. He knows he's going to need it. "You think I can?"_

 _"I believe you can do anything," she assures him. Her tone is earnest, full of honesty._

 _Lucas licks his lips, nodding and trying to accept her belief as truth. Deciding if she believes he can do it, then there can't be any other possible alternative._

 _He can feel himself drifting off, but he's not sure whether it's to sleep or somewhere else entirely. The world is becoming foggy around him, maintaining a dream-like presence as it dissolves away to nothing._

 _"Will you be there?" he murmurs, hoping she'll catch his last query. Hoping he has just enough time for her to respond. "Wherever I go, will you be there?"_

 _She's the last thing he can focus on. As the edges of black creep in around her, he focuses on the softness of her smile and the affection glimmering in those brown eyes._

 _Gently, she reaches forward and touches his wrist. The one that should be shattered, broken from the bull yet somehow healed in her presence. When her fingers meet his skin, an odd sensation ripples through him that's both grounding and unsettling—the sense that this moment, the contact between them, is far too real._

 _"We will always be there for each other."_


	8. sacrifice

Considering how much of the wall crumbled on top of him, he's expecting the weight of it to be heavy when he comes back around again. He's expecting his broken arm to be agonizing, and his time remaining to be dwindling.

As it turns out, he's proven wrong yet again. He's covered in something, but it definitely isn't rubble.

His vision is obscured, and whatever is encasing him is prickly and unpleasant. The odor is reed-like, mixing in with other aromas around him to create a displeasing but sharply familiar scent. Something he's spent hours with, a sensory memory that seems to have reentered his conscious mind.

Horses. It smells like horses.

Cautiously, Lucas begins to push his way through the debris stacked on top of him. When he creates an oval of light he pushes further, scrunching away the material that seems to crackle and bend easily at his touch.

When he pops his head out from the pile, he takes in the view of the unassuming stable around him. He glances down, wincing at the grain poking at him through his jeans.

Hay. He's a needle in a haystack, and somehow he's ended up at Pappy Joe's ranch.

This can't be right. He knows it can't be, but the visuals are too true to life to be imagined. He climbs to his feet—grateful that all his limbs still seem to be in working order—and paces the length of the stable towards the very last stall.

His favorite horse is there, grazing in her stall and just as healthy and content as usual. Her tail flicks back and forth, driving away flies and providing a rhythm to her mundane horse routine.

"Sandy," he breathes, not believing his eyes. But when she lifts her muzzle and gazes at him, he can't see what else she could be. It's Sophia's baby and his pride and joy, hanging out in her stable in one of the few places he's ever called home. "Sandy, hey!"

He reaches forward to pet her nose, the horse sidling up to him and allowing the touch. Evidently as familiar with him as he is with her. Then he realizes the significance of the moment, the significance that this pony is so instantly recognizable to him at all.

He remembers. Finally, he remembers.

Lucas exhales a frazzled laugh, so relieved to be in the presence of something he loves so much. Absorbing the possibility that maybe, he is actually home.

But then, no. It's not quite right. It can't be done yet.

Riley isn't there. She's nowhere to be found, and he knows that when he makes it to the finish line she'll be there to greet him. Real, in the flesh, the most trustworthy thing he can imagine. She promised him she would be, so he knows she will.

If she's not here, then he's not home. And he's still got miles to go.

Lucas allows himself one more moment with Sandy, taking the insincere softness for what it's worth. Then he sighs, backing into the middle of the stables and deciding where to go next. If he's supposed to be heading home, then he has to assume going back to his former abode would be a good start.

When he emerges from the barn, dust filtering down from the rafters as he pushes open doors that don't seem to have been touched in years, he only confirms his notion that he's not quite back to reality just yet. The world seems lost in shadows, a perpetual magenta sunset casting the trees and scattered farmhouses in silhouettes of black.

Far less welcoming than the ranch usually is.

"Lucas?"

He whips around, expecting trouble as he's been trained to do. But the figure watching him as he approaches from the other side of the barn is a far cry from unfriendly. He seems entirely ordinary, as he always remembers him, same lithe frame and worn flannel and skeptical expression on his face.

He remembers. It's so, so good to remember.

"Zay," he chokes out, running over and wrapping his best friend in a hug. This version of Zay doesn't return the embrace, stiffening and waiting patiently until he lets him go. "Zay, it's so good to see you."

Zay examines him, skepticism shifting to unsettled surprise. When he speaks again, his tone is laced with dread.

"You're not supposed to be here."

"I know," Lucas exhales. "Believe me, I know."

"How did you get here?" Zay starts looking around them anxiously, stepping around him and checking behind him in the distance. When he whips back around, his expression is more serious than Lucas thinks he's ever seen his best friend.

Then, he supposes, maybe it's not really him at all. Maybe it's another mirage, like Sandy, only familiar by projection that is actually wholly unknown to him.

"You need to get out of here."

"Trust me, you're not the first to say that. Where are we?" Zay doesn't offer an answer, still searching for incoming threats as if he knows they're imminent. "Zay, I'm going to go. I'm going to keep going. But you have to tell me how to get there."

Zay hesitates, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. When he locks eyes with him, it's with a paradoxical mixture of determination and reluctance. "I can only think of one place that would make sense. Your old room. The only alternative would be…"

He trails off, obviously not enthused by the other option.

Lucas will take either one, so he's not going to complain. "That's what I was thinking. My old room, in Pappy Joe's house. Is it the same way up the hillside like normal?"

"Yeah, but we have to hurry," he says quickly, already starting the trek back up the grass. He's still on alert, eyes darting around anxiously. "He can't see you. If he sees you, we're done for."

Lucas doesn't waste time questioning him. He joins him in marching up the hillside, feeling sweat begin to form on his hairline from the muggy heat that's seemed to follow him no matter what landscape he ends up inhabiting.

"You know the dangerous stuff you're messing with, right?" Zay barks, continuously looking over his shoulder. The huffing of his breath only accents the harshness of his tone. "The lines you're crossing, gambling with—,"

"Death," Lucas guesses. Having taken in enough context clues from all he's endured, he's starting to piece together a pretty clear picture of what's going on. "Right? I'm coming back from the dead."

"No. Don't be an idiot. If you had died, you'd be dead. That would be it. You certainly wouldn't be here risking both of our asses in your crazy crusade."

Lucas frowns. "So, what then? If I'm not dead, then what is all this?"

"You're in between," he snaps. "Walking the wire, toeing the line between that world and the next. It's rare, but it happens. Usually only briefly, like those who suffer cardiac arrest but are brought back by the defibrillator. Been occupied a lot more recently with the advent of technology. Life support, and such."

For all the memory he seems to have recollected over the course of his journey, whatever happened to him to send him to this place remains a blank space. He shakes his head, lost. "I don't understand. What happened to me?"

"Do you think I know?" Zay rolls his eyes, moving faster in an effort to keep them going but also maybe as a way to get away from him. "Whoever you think I am to you, I'm not that person. I'm not anything. I'm just however you see me. I know nothing about you, we have no connection."

Lucas absorbs this. Not Zay keeps on rambling, clearly frazzled despite the relatively tame surroundings. Compared to everything else he's seen, it's like a walk in the park.

"Every once and a while, someone like you shows up. Someone who's determined to make it back. For whatever reason, and the reason is always different. I'm sure you've got yours."

Lucas thinks of Riley, and in doing so realizes the reality of his situation. If something happened to him, all that time that he's been here, she's been dealing with that. Grappling with whatever happened, completely alone. He feels sick.

"But what they don't seem to realize is that going back isn't as simple as walking through a door. It's not a happenstance, it's an active choice. It requires work. Grueling work. That's why so few make it this far anyway. And sacrifice. So much sacrifice." Zay hesitates, clearly familiar with this situation. "But it tends to go the same way. Always the same."

He shifts his gaze, locking eyes with Lucas. Clearly wondering if he's going to be the same, eyes burning with resentment he's not sure is warranted.

"Fact of the matter is, not many really deserve to go back."

Zay marches onward, not waiting up. Lucas pauses, trying to comprehend why he seems to carry so much bitterness towards the situation while maintaining his own sense of calm. If he allows himself to mirror that sense of anxiety, he knows it's only going to hurt him.

"I'm not saying I do," he says, jogging to catch up to him. He can see the ranch house coming up on the horizon, within view and providing a sense of hope. "Deserve it, that is. But I have to try."

Zay slows to a halt, examining him thoughtfully. For whatever reason, Lucas thinks he sees a trace of hope glimmer in his expression as well. "And try you will."

"Lucas?" The gruff paternal voice that interrupts their conversation does more to shock Lucas than half of the stuff he's experienced thus far. Mostly because he was certain he would never hear it again. "My stars, is that really you?"

Lucas whips around, missing the expression that crosses Zay's features. He looks down the hill at the figure sidling towards them, so overwhelmed with emotion that he doesn't even know which one to process first. Elation, confusion, an odd sense of grief—his mind is a hurricane as he watches the form of his beloved grandfather approach. His grandfather who passed away months ago, leaving him without so much as the chance to properly say goodbye.

"Pappy Joe," he exhales, darting back down the hill.

When he collides with his grandpa and pulls him into a hug Joe laughs, returning the embrace and patting him heartily on the back. Sharing some of that rare affection the men in his family so seldom got to display, only mutual between them as they both got older and some of those long internalized expectations started to dissolve away.

"It's a mighty fine surprise to see you," Pappy Joe says jovially, stepping back and gripping Lucas's shoulders. "But what are you doing around these parts? You certainly don't belong all the way out here."

Lucas can't help but laugh. Exasperated, but so happy to see him he temporarily forgets. "I know."

Behind him, he thinks he hears Zay say something. But Pappy Joe talks over him.

"Well, you should come around and stay a while. I'll make you some food, we can catch up—got a hefty amount of leftovers in the fridge that need cooking, if I do say so myself. You can stay as long as you like, you know you're welcome here."

The offer is tempting. Brutally tempting, if he's being honest, but he hasn't forgotten the reason he's here in the first place. "Thank you. Really, I wish I could. But I have to go."

For the first time since he's appeared, Pappy Joe's expression shifts. It's only for an instant, before the pleasant smile returns, but Lucas catches it. He doesn't have much time to ponder it before Joe continues.

"Well, Lucas," he says, chuckling as if Lucas is six years old again and getting the horse meal mixed up with the chicken feed. "Why would you want to go and do a thing like that?"

Lucas blinks, taken aback by the comment. "What?"

"You know how dangerous that is, don't you? And here, you're safe. The world out there, you've got all the time in the world to go back to that." His grandfather rubs his shoulders again, giving him an encouraging grin. "Wouldn't you be able to spare an hour or two humoring your old pappy? Wouldn't it be nice to take a minute and think?"

"Lucas," Zay says, back within earshot. Lucas looks over his shoulder to glance at him. He's approached from behind, serving as a reminder that he has other places he needs to be. That as lovely as this offer sounds, it's not real. It can't be, and it won't last forever.

Pappy Joe's grip on his shoulder suddenly seems tighter than before. He turns back to face him, hesitantly. For all the tricks this in between world has played on him, he has to think this is the cruelest.

"Come on now," Joe says soothingly. "I know you're tired. You know you want to give it up. Are you truly gonna pass up the chance to reconnect with your pappy?" He releases one of his shoulders and grips the back of his neck instead, a hold that feels more restraining than loving. "The only family who ever really gave a damn about you?"

Lucas's vision blurs with tears, softening the image of his grandpa just enough to give him the emotional bandwidth to think. Of course he's tired. Of course he wants to give up. Of course he wants to drop everything else and take a minute to stay with his grandfather, the only family he's ever truly felt connected to in spite of all their own ups and downs. The question just seems cruel.

But then, he thinks about the family he built for himself in the process. The friends that have been guiding him through this entire journey, whether they realize it or not. The home he built of his own volition, with his own hard work, that has had to progress on without his pappy's presence in it.

He thinks about Riley, and how when he got the news she was right by his side. Spreading her sunshine and keeping him steady, as she always does. How she's waiting for him, inevitably dreading the same kind of news but having to carry it alone.

"I want to stop," Lucas admits shakily. Every ache in his body from all he's endured seems to reignite, throbbing and imploring him to take the respite. "I want to stay."

Pappy Joe smiles. But when Lucas inhales, clearly not finished, it falters.

"But you're not real." He steps back from his touch, separating himself from the illusion. Regardless of how much it hurts. "You're not real, but she is. And she needs me. I want to get back to her. More than anything else."

"Now, boy," Joe says warningly, a look of disappointment crossing his features. Lucas is well-acquainted with that look. "Think long and hard about what you're saying. Don't be hasty and make the wrong decision."

Lucas takes another definitive step backwards. "There is no decision. Only a promise. And I'm not going to let anything stop me from keeping it."

Silence. Tense silence, the kind that tightens every muscle in his body and forewarns incoming danger. One he's very accustomed to, as that's the only kind he ever knew growing up.

Then, tellingly, Pappy Joe sighs.

"I didn't want to do this," he says, reaching around his back. He retrieves his favorite hunting rifle from the strap on his shoulder. "But you leave me no choice."

Lucas eyes the gun in his grandfather's hands, eyes widening. Totally frozen in disbelief. But when Joe locks the barrel into place, he recognizes he's all too serious.

"They never make the right decision."

"Lucas," Zay shouts, snapping him out of his terror. " _Run!_ "

In an instant, he finds the adrenaline to move. He whips around and begins a desperate sprint up the hillside, Zay falling into step behind him just as the first shot from Pappy Joe rings through the air.

The race to the house is excruciating, the threat of instant death chasing him all the way up the hill. For every step he takes it feels as though he's not making any progress, the landscape stretching and morphing around him to make the house inch further and further out of his reach.

"This is impossible!" he shouts, nearly jumping out of his skin when a bullet grazes by his ear. He almost stumbles, Zay reaching out and steadying him back on his feet.

The two of them keep running. Zay doesn't humor his negative thinking.

"You told me you had to try," he yells. "Isn't that what you said? Didn't I tell you it's gruesome work? If you want to get to that house, fight for it!"

Lucas grits his teeth, forcing his legs to pump harder. Driving every last ounce of energy he has into reaching that porch, getting to the end.

When he slams onto the porch, out of breath, Zay reaches down to help him back to his feet. He tosses a glance over his shoulder, urging Lucas towards the door. "Open it. Come on, go, go!"

Lucas fumbles with the knob, shoving the door open and tugging the both of them inside just as another bullet lodges into the door frame.

Slamming the door behind them, Lucas immediately searches for a way to buy them time. He grabs the nearest piece of furniture—the ratty old couch—and starts pushing it towards the door. Zay jumps in next to him, the two of them ramming the hefty mound of upholstery up against the entrance.

"Stairs," Zay says, nudging him towards the stairwell.

When Lucas whips around, he's stunned to find Pappy Joe aiming the gun at them from the darkened kitchen. He pulls the trigger and Zay and Lucas slam to the ground, avoiding the shot but obviously not having any luck blocking him out.

"How did he get in?" Lucas cries.

"It doesn't matter!" Zay shouts, urging him onward in the few moments it takes Joe to reload. "Go! Keep going!"

Lucas pushes himself to his feet, darting towards the stairs and tearing up the steps. Zay is right behind him, but so too is their pursuer. And he knows he's running out of time.

The hallway feels endless when he gets to the top of the steps, the ranch house a distorted, lopsided version of the place he once used to call home. His room waits for them all the way at the opposite end, door closed.

"Go," Zay says in exhaustion, nodding him onwards. "I'll hold him off, you go."

Lucas shakes his head, frowning. "No way. I'm not leaving you to fend him off alone."

All things considered, Not Zay seems genuinely surprised by this response. Lucas doesn't give him time to argue, taking his arm and leading the charge down the hallway just as Pappy Joe begins ascending the stairs. His shadow looms large on the wall behind them, warning them of his incoming presence with every step he takes.

They make it to his room, Lucas releasing a sigh of relief. He turns the knob, only for it to jiggle lamely in response. The door doesn't budge.

"No," Lucas breathes, shaking his head. "No, no."

He tries the knob again, twisting it so hard it falls off. He drops it at his feet, glancing over his shoulder as the silhouette of his grandfather forms at the other end of the hall.

"Damn it. Damn it!" he shouts, slamming the door. Then, desperate and out of ideas, he rams his shoulder into the door in the hopes of breaking it down. "Come on!"

"Lucas," Zay says, tone despondent. "It's too late."

"No." He slams into it again. His arm formerly broken by the bull twinges warningly, indicating that its miraculous healing may not hold up under much more stress. "No! I'm not giving up!"

He hears the barrel of the gun click again. Swallowing his fear, he spins back around to stand shoulder to shoulder with his guide.

"Look at it this way," Pappy Joe says wisely, aiming the barrel in the direction of Zay to take him down first. "You probably never deserved to get this far anyway."

Lucas glances at Not Zay—the resigned expression on his face, the acknowledgement that this seems to be how it always ends. But he also sees the tired features of his best friend, one of the people he's always been most determined to protect, someone who he'd do anything to keep from getting hurt. Then his gaze drifts back to the weapon pointed directly at him, sealing his fate.

He knows if Riley knew the whole situation, she'd understand. If she had to make the same choice, he knows she'd do the same. In the end, despite how hard he's worked to get back to her, if the end has to be like this then she knows she'll forgive him.

Lucas moves before he can question himself further. One shot rings out, then another, two bullets lodging into his torso as he steps forward to shield someone he cares about from the blast.

All he catches aside from the shock of pain burning through him is the shocked expression on his best friend's face. Then he's on the ground, Pappy Joe's furious, inhumane roar ripping through the air.

Zay drops down next to him in moments, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and helping him sit up. "Lucas—,"

"I couldn't—," Lucas mutters, struggling to find the words as shock creeps in and takes over his ability to function. He locks eyes with Zay, shaking his head erratically. "I couldn't let him—,"

"You're the kind of guy would who do anything for his friends, huh?" For whatever reason, Zay's smiling at him. Looking more approachable and proud than he has the duration of the time they've interacted with one another.

Lucas coughs, a bit more of that strange black blood dribbling onto his chin. "I couldn't do it. I failed."

"No, Lucas," he argues, grin widening. The world is starting to fade, white bleeding through the pores in his vision and melting together to consume him. "You did everything right. You made the right choice."

The last thing he makes out before fading entirely is Zay's proud beam, so out of place in a realm so dominated by terror.

"You deserve it."


	9. when it happens

**He's in the passenger seat of a truck he's never been in before. Sitting next to him is a man he doesn't recognize, speeding down the side street at an unreasonable speed. Especially given the season and the slickness of the roads.**

 **Up ahead, he can see the light is green. He turns to tell the guy to slow down, but he realizes he doesn't have the power to speak. He doesn't have the power to move. He doesn't have the ability to do anything but watch.**

 **He clocks many things about the situation. How loud the radio is playing. How greasy the driver's hands are from the takeout sitting in his cup holder. The way he wipes his hands on his pant leg before checking his phone, glancing down at his lap intermittently as they approach the intersection.**

 **The light shifts to yellow, changing in the instant the man looks down again. He wants to say something, the faster they veer towards the intersection. He can sense something terrible is going to happen, a definitive sense of panic crawling up his spine and curling around his ribcage.**

 **Red. Other cars begin peeling into the intersection, exercising their right of way. But they're not slowing down. The man hasn't looked up in time.**

 **Even when he does, it's already too late. Lucas knows. The driver slams on the brakes but the ice on the road does him no favors, maintaining their speed and sending them careening into the intersection at full speed.**

 **They're going to crash.**

 **Lucas looks through the glass to the other vehicle, eerily familiar to him even in the distorted haze of a memory. He sees the driver crossing the intersection look to the right, noticing the truck uncontrollably hurtling towards him. He relives all of it the instant before everything changes—the sharp intake of breath, the twitch of every muscle trying to find a solution and coming up short, the green eyes widening with horror.**

 **Everything is a tornado, a blur of horns blaring and metal crunching and the entire world being turned upside down.**

 **Then, blackness. Nothing but infinite black.**


	10. segue - belief

_Blackness. That's all there is. He has to wonder if that's all there will ever be._

 _He's standing in the middle of it, totally consumed. No clear direction that he's supposed to head in next. Nothing distracting him from the reality of everything he's endured—the accident, the injuries, the never-ending fight to seemingly get closer and closer to nothing._

 _He's tired. He's broken. He's been fighting for so long, and he doesn't have anything left to give._

 _Lucas exhales a choked breath, attempting to take a step forward but tumbling to his knees instead. His own body has given up, deciding for him that there's nowhere else to go. That time is up. It's over._

 _He's done._

 _"Lucas!"_

 _He's convinced he's just imagined her, not sure what another distant smile or missed touch is going to do for him when suddenly she's there. She's there, right there in front of him, crouching down to his level and making him meet her eyes._

 _"Lucas," she repeats breathlessly, taking his face in her hands. Tears stain her cheeks, but he has no idea if they're fresh or if they're simply representative of an endless expanse of them she's shed._

 _Regardless, they prompt his almost immediately. He can't hold them back any more, so worn to his core that any sort of resistance seems fruitless. He chokes out a sob, unable to believe that she's there with him even though he can feel her warm hands on his skin and the details of her face seem more real and within reach than ever before._

 _"I can't," he croaks. "I can't do it."_

 _She shakes her head, adamant. A couple of tears slip down her cheeks, and she inhales a shaky breath. "You can. I know you can. You can do anything."_

 _"I can't. It's too much."_

 _"Look at me. Lucas, look at me," she pleads, waiting for him to meet her eyes. Despite how drowned he is, how broken he feels, he figures if anything has a chance of giving him one last wind it's her. It's always been her. "I'm here. Okay? I'm here. You can do this."_

 _He lets out another sob, screwing his eyes shut and trying to take her words to heart. Trying to find whatever's left inside him to act as fuel for whatever final push he has left._

 _"I know it's hard. I know you're tired. But you're so close." She wipes the tears from his cheeks, leaning forward and pressing her forehead against his. "I believe in you."_

 _He's come this far. He's overcome so much._

 _Lucas takes her forearms in his hands, exhaling a shaky breath and forcing himself to believe her. Working his hardest to take her certainty and faith and turn it into drive for himself. He nods, nudging his forehead against hers again._

 _She presses a kiss to his forehead, wiping any final tears from his face. When she locks eyes with him, her brown eyes are so filled to the brim with devotion he doesn't see how he couldn't make it back to her._

 _"I will always believe in you."_


	11. the alter ego

She's gone too quickly, escaping out of his hands before he can do anything else. He clambers off balance, breaking his fall with his hands and wincing as he hits the ground.

Unlike the usual pattern, nothing about the scenery has changed around him. It's still darkness, never-ending, offering no clues or insight as to how he's supposed to finally break out of this hell scape. All he can do is get up, brush himself off, and keep moving forward.

Then, he thinks he sees it. A doorway, simplistic and unassuming, standing in the midst of the blackness. Inviting, waiting for him to step through.

Zay had told him the passage back home wouldn't be a simple door. Yet, here one is, standing in front of him.

Breathless and overwhelmed with nerves, he begins a frantic jog in its pursuit. The closer he gets, the more the world seems to close in around him, pushing him further and further away. But he's determined, squeezing through the tunneling atmosphere in pursuit of his final destination. He stretches out a hand, inches from the doorknob. In theory, inches from freedom.

"You know it won't be that easy."

He freezes, the world expanding back around him and bringing him back to his currently reality. The voice is shocking enough to snap him out of any dreamy haze, so startling to hear outside of his own head that he feels his blood run cold the moment they speak.

He could choose to ignore it. The nagging voice still blissfully hidden in the darkness behind him. The door still waits in front of him, nothing holding him back from opening it.

But somehow, in his gut he knows they're right. Reluctantly, he lowers his hand and steps away from the door. It dissolves into thin air, shimmering like stardust before melting away into the endless darkness. Stranding him again.

Still, the task awaiting him now seems far more daunting.

"You going to face me, or what?"

Hesitantly, not certain what he expects to find, he turns around.

For a second, he thinks he's looking at his reflection. Someone's installed a mirror between him and the other side of this abyss, and all he's seeing is a reflection of himself. But it's too eerily accurate to be two-dimensional, all of the imperfections in exactly the right place and not on the opposite side as a reflection would dictate. And most reflections don't speak, echoing his exact cadences and tone and trained hesitancy back to him.

No, he's looking at himself. Another version of himself.

He blinks, brow knitting together in confusion. "I don't understand."

"Of course you don't," Other Lucas states. For a moment, a smile that seems to indicate amusement creeps across his lips, before melting into a contemptuous scowl. "Because you're an idiot."

He's hard to look at. Something about him makes every instinct in him want to avert his eyes, despite how exceptionally ordinary he appears. His mere presence makes every hair on the back of his neck stand on end, pushes every button he has. He's the sheer manifestation of the small, everyday reasons he hates looking in the mirror, only magnified to the highest power.

This Lucas is everything he hates about himself—every rage-filled outburst, every hateful and intrusive thought he's ever had—encapsulated into one spitting mirror image.

"You didn't think that you could really make it out of here, did you?" Other Lucas shakes his head, beginning a slow, methodical pace. "Least of all without confronting me."

Lucas blinks, searching for alternatives. Looking for another way out.

"Oh, actually, I'm sure you did." Other Lucas stops, clasping his hands together in front of him and tilting his head at him. It lacks any of the warmth of his girl, any of the curiosity of his former robotic guide. Only condescension and distaste and every other ugly emotion he's ever regretted having. "Because you're always doing that. Looking the other way, blocking me out, thinking if you push me down far enough maybe I'll just disappear."

Lucas closes his eyes, trying to do just that. Trying to shake off some of the instant self-loathing that seems to creep into him just from his proximity. "Stop."

"Oh, what? Are you uncomfortable? Tired?" He's behind him now, but he can feel him stepping closer with every breath he takes. "Seems to me as though you can't make up your mind. I mean, we all know you're useless and can't make a good decision. But considering how often you claimed to want everything to be quiet for once, seems stupid to be fighting so hard to give all that up."

He's breathing down his neck. Hovering, insistent, the way he always is.

"Isn't that what you wanted? For everything to stop?"

Lucas lets his anger get the better of him. He raises his fist and whips around but his alter ego is quicker, grabbing his wrist and holding him hostage in his grip. They lock eyes for a moment, Other Lucas cracking a smirk.

Then he throws him away, possessing way more strength than Lucas is sure he actually owns. Empowered by the hopelessness of the situation, existing in the only realm where his mere existence is a weapon unhindered by anything or anyone else.

Lucas hits the ground hard, the impact knocking the breath out of him. He rolls onto his stomach, gritting his teeth as his other steps up behind him again.

"You're so pathetic," he sneers, nudging him with his boot and knocking him back onto his side. "Always trying to fight me, to act like you're better than you actually are. _Mr. Perfect_. Do you think that if Riley and I had a nice chat, she'd still love you?"

"Don't talk about her," Lucas spits, lifting his head to glare at his alter ego. "Don't—,"

"God, you're stupid." He remains unmoved, dropping into a crouch in front of him. He takes a fistful of his hair and yanks his head up to make eye contact, abhorrent glare boring into him. "Don't you get it? I _am_ you. Your precious Riley? Well, I love her too. I am everything you do and everything you are. Can't have one without the other."

Lucas grimaces, tugging away from his grip and attempting to roll out of the way. But the alter seems to anticipate this, grabbing him by the back of the shirt collar and slamming him back down onto the ground. He pins him easily, digging his elbow into his neck and threatening much worse with just a little added pressure.

"I know you're not strong enough to admit the truth to yourself, so I'll share what we both know," he snarls, pressing forward onto his throat. Lucas sucks in a choked breath, clawing at their shoulders in a desperate attempt to break free. "You're not good enough for her. You don't deserve her. And you don't deserve to go back so why are you even trying?"

He can feel his lungs constricting, starved for oxygen and growing increasingly tired of having to fight so damn hard for it. Staring into his own eyes, knowing the feeling of self-loathing and how it can consume him all too well, he realizes he doesn't want to let that be the one thing that holds him back.

If anything keeps him from getting back to Riley—to life, most importantly—he doesn't want it to be himself.

Lucas manages a strained inhale, trembling as he fights to stay conscious. "I can share something we both know too."

"Oh, you can? I didn't even know you could think." His alter ego raises an eyebrow, challenging him. "Go on, then. Speak, boy. Woof."

"You may be a part of me," Lucas concedes, willing himself to have enough air to get out this one thought. "But that doesn't mean you're not full of shit."

The statement seems to work as intended. The blow to the validity of his harsh words seems to reduce some of his strength, giving Lucas enough of a window to kick him off of him and escape his chokehold.

Other Lucas goes sprawling across the darkness, giving him the chance to run. He doesn't waste a second, scrambling to his feet and tearing through the abyss. The further he goes, the more the landscape seems to take form and shift around him. He hardly pays it any attention, focused on getting as far away from the ugly parts of him as possible.

He comes to a halt as the terrain shifts into a steep slope in front of him, threatening to steal his footing entirely.

It's a moment he doesn't have to spare. In the second it takes him to decide where to turn next his alter ego has caught up, pulling him into a headlock.

Other Lucas drags him backwards, spinning him around so they're face to face again. Before he can react he grabs his neck, pushing him towards the edge of the slope and threatening to back him right off of it.

It's a long fall, one he's not certain he would survive if worst came to worst.

His alter ego empowered with that otherworldly strength again, Lucas feels his feet leave solid ground as he lifts him up by the throat, dangling him over the edge. Ensuring him a very devastating and very torturous demise.

"You can't outrun me," he taunts. "You can't wish me away just because you want to. We're a part of one another, and you can't have one without the other. No matter how much you refuse to accept it. And you're never, ever getting back without me."

All this effort just to be taken down by his own insecurity. It seems like a tragic, pathetic conclusion—befitting of him, if his alter ego has anything to say about it—but then he realizes he's exactly right. He can't run from this anymore. He's done all the running he possibly can.

Living has never been easy. Neither has surviving. But for every bad day there's a glimmer of joy, and for every self-deprecating thought or desire to give up there's three more reasons to keep going. He can't only take the good and leave out the bad—that's not life. Life is both, and he can't have one without the other.

Suddenly, he realizes what he has to do. The key to the final door has been right in front of him all along, and all he has to do is take it back.

"Well, then," Lucas croaks. "I guess we're both going down."

Not waiting for him to make the move himself, Lucas swings his own weight backwards with enough force to send them off balance. Caught off-guard, his alter ego lets him go only to have the momentum of that sudden shift in weight send him over the edge as well.

Lucas scrambles forward at the last second, grasping at the edge of the slope with everything he's got as his replica goes slamming into the terrain below. He hits every snag until he lands with a pronounced _thud_ on the ground below, ruined and unmoving as he stares into the blackness encompassing them.

Silence encroaches around him again. Lucas glares over his shoulder at his crumpled form waiting below, torn between feeling sick and wishing it much, much worse.

Carefully, Lucas makes his way down the slope. He takes his time, knowing there's no rush. Decisions, they're his to make. When he gets there, he'll get there. The only danger he really has is to himself.

Successfully making the descent, he tentatively approaches the paralyzed corpse. Eerie to see his own body so bent and broken.

Still, he's not gone. His alter's eyes shift towards him as he comes to kneel beside him, still persisting on as usual. Not so easy to get rid of, as he very well knows.

"You're right," Lucas murmurs. "I want to go back. But I can't do that without all of who I am. Even the parts I wish I could kill."

He stares down at the personification of those very things, taking in the disgust and rage etched into his own features. Knowing he's worn that expression more than a few times in the past, and certain he'll inevitably have to process them again in the future.

But at least there's a future to look forward to. A future that belongs to him, hard fought and earned with every single breath.

Gently, he reaches out and touches his shoulder. "And that means accepting you, too."

Suddenly, his alter ego's hand snaps up and grabs his arm. He startles, almost tearing from his grasp but recognizing maybe this is exactly what he needs. This is exactly how it has to go.

"You should've died," he spits weakly, eyes burning with an unparalleled amount of hatred.

Lucas shakes his head, more certain than ever before. "You're wrong."

His alter ego seethes before lunging forward, making one last effort to tear him to pieces. Lucas takes the hit and catches him, wrapping his arms around him and locking him into an embrace. Squeezing him so tightly it's suffocating, not backing down when he struggles against him in an attempt to get away.

It hurts. It physically hurts, every part of him burning and a headache threatening to split open his skull. His alter ego screams, an enraged roar so raw with emotion it's scary to remember how much he can feel. How much emotion one person can hold inside themselves where no one else can see.

Then, he's gone. In a swift transition he dissolves and drifts back into himself, sending a shot of adrenaline through him before draining him of all his energy. He's run dry, totally exhausted and out of effort left to give.

He stumbles back onto his side, unable to even sit up straight. He collapses onto his back, staring up at the infinite black and struggling to keep his vision from doubling. Everything is hazy, foggy, like he's sleepwalking. He doesn't feel quite here or there—he's in between, as he supposes he's been this entire time.

Then, he hears a beep. It sounds far away, but he can hear it. Then another. And another.

A steady beat, monitoring something somewhere he can't see. But it's soothing. Lulling. A promise of something important.

 _Beep. Beep. Beep._

Everything is fading away again, brightening to that all too familiar white. Unable to keep them open another second, Lucas lets his eyes flutter closed.


	12. home

Lucas is acutely aware of how real everything feels. How sharply he can sense things. The chill of the room. The hum of machinery creating a blanket of white noise. The bright white bleeding light into his eyes, even while they're still closed.

 _Beep. Beep. Beep._

When he lets them drift open, it's not the sky creating such bright light. Not overcast nor a red haze nor brilliant blue. It's just the fluorescents, something so unassumingly mundane it feels like a pleasant surprise.

He's aware of how tired he feels, how sluggish, but for once it doesn't feel monumental. It feels normal, expected. The way he assumes he's supposed to feel.

Lucas opens his eyes wider, blinking as he wearily takes in the scenery around him. Neutral colored walls. Cards, flowers, other assorted niceties cluttering the chairs pushed up against the wall. The hulking machine on his right, connecting him to an assortment of wiring and helping the oxygen tube push more air into his lungs. Keeping track of his vitals, including the consistent, steady beat of his heart.

 _Beep. Beep. Beep._

Tilting his head the other way, he acknowledges the extra weight on top of his wrist. The two other hands cradling his own, belonging to the figure passed out against the hospital bed beside him and clearly not having moved in hours.

Of course, he'd recognize her anywhere. The monitor picks up the way his heart begins to pound, keeping pace and accelerating the rate of its tempo.

 _Beep. Beep. Beep._

"Riley," he whispers, surprised by how hoarse his voice comes out. He supposes it's been a while since he's used it, so it has some warming up to do. "Riley."

She stirs the moment he speaks, lifting her head and blinking the sleep out of her eyes. She doesn't fully comprehend what's happening until he puts in the effort to move his hand, adjusting his fingers so he can link them with hers.

She's suddenly wide awake. Her head snaps up and she matches his gaze, striking brown eyes wide with shock. "Lucas?"

He does his best to manage a tired smile. He can't think of anything else to say. "Hi."

"Oh my God," she cries, hands shaking and immediately bursting into tears. She gives him a watery smile, standing so she can pull him into a tight hug. "Oh my God, hi. Oh my God."

It's the most healing thing he can possibly think of, being back in her arms. He exhales what feels like a centuries worth of tension, nuzzling into her neck and breathing her in. Remembering just how wonderful it feels to be alive.

She pulls back from him for the sole purpose of looking at him again, before taking his face in her hands and kissing him. It feels impossibly overdue.

"The doctor," she says when they break apart, like it's a scattered afterthought that she can't seem to fathom how it's important. But the reasoning catches up with her eventually. "We should get the doctor."

She reaches over his torso and presses the call button on the wire connected to his IV, summoning the nurse. Then she focuses back on him, obviously in disbelief that he's awake. Wondering how on Earth it could be possible.

She has no idea.

Riley leans forward and kisses him again, giving him the chance to return the favor before she pulls away. She presses their foreheads together, bumping her nose against his and shaking her head incredulously.

"You came back to me," she says, breathless with the truth of it.

He reaches up to wipe the tears from her cheeks, knowing he couldn't have without her. As if he could ever forget about her. Knowing that at the end of the day, she's always going to be the thing that saves him.

He pulls her into another hug, reveling in how good it feels to be back. How good it feels to be home.

"Always."


End file.
